Leading into Battle
by Scribe-of-Arda
Summary: In the Battle of the Five Armies, a King struggles with the aftermath. Where is Legolas? Where is his son? And when he finds out, his worst nightmares almost come true. Spoilers for the Hobbit, if you haven't read it, and quite angsty in places. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

Leading into Battle

_A/N: The Hobbit: Desolation of Smaug is out on DVD and Blu-ray. Yippee! All the behind the scenes of the filming, especially the stuff of Orly as Legolas (what can I say? I love that blond elf) got me thinking. What actually happened to Legolas in the Battle of the Five Armies? So I dug out my copy of the Hobbit (I say dug out, it is in pride of place next to my bed with all my other LOTR books), and read through the final chapters regarding the battle, imagining what Legolas would have done. The films will offer their own view when they finally come out, but for now, this is what I think happened. Or rather, this is a story of what may have happened that fulfils my need for angst and seeing Legolas injured. Again._

_Disclaimer: I really don't like writing these (disclaimers, not fanfics. I love writing fanfics). They just remind me, again and again, that I don't own a single piece of them!_

0-o-0-o-0

_The elves were the first to charge. Their hatred for the goblins is cold and bitter. Their spears and swords shone in the gloom, so deadly was the wrath of the hands that held them. As soon as the host of their enemies was dense in the valley, they sent against it a shower of arrows, and each flickered as it fled as if with stinging fire. Behind the arrows a thousand of their spearmen leapt down and charged._

Thranduil watched from his position high on one of the spurs of the Lonely Mountain. Below him a volley of arrows was released, the great elven bows singing in the gloom. He turned slightly as there came a great cry from below him, and his spearmen charged against the black tidal waves of the orcs.

The shadow had returned, and right now Thranduil felt the chill of Mordor more keenly than he had felt it since the day when Isildur cut the ring from Sauron's hand. He shook his head bitterly. He had known this would come to pass. Ever since Dagorlad, the light from the sun had been dimmed. Thranduil had been expecting this. And he knew it was only the beginning.

The Elven King gazed out over the valley with keen eyes, watching the bright charge of his warriors. Somewhere, probably at the front, ran his son, Legolas.

0-o-0-o-0

_Earlier that day_

The Elvenking stood on the top of one of the spurs of the valley. Some of his captains were clustered around him, relaying orders. His sword swung idly in his hand as he watched the amassing of the troops below. Rather like the scurrying of ants, he thought absentmindedly. A messenger picked his way up the rocks towards him.

"Greetings, my Lord" said the messenger, hailing the King.

"Greetings" replied Thranduil. "Did you tell him?" The messenger suddenly appeared very nervous, avoiding the icy gaze of his King. "Aye, my Lord, I did."

"And?"

"He…well, he refused to come, my Lord." The messenger took a step backwards at the flash of fury in Thranduil's eyes. "He told me to say that he was staying with his warriors further down the valley. He is going to lead the spearmen when the first charge happens."

Thranduil began to pace restlessly. "He said that? He refused?" His sword spun in his hand. "Tell him… say it is an order. He cannot avoid it."

"With respect, my Lord, I had guessed his reply and told him that it was a direct order for him to come to you immediately, rather than a request. He refused that."

Thranduil sighed. He should have guessed that would happen. He should have gone further down the spur himself, but there was too much to organise. He still had tactics to finalise, and Mithrandir to talk to. He looked over; the wizard was bending over, talking to the _perian_. Thranduil was surprised. He had not expected Master Baggins to be in the battle, let alone stand with him, the King of the Woodland Realm. He should have guessed it though; the _perian_ was full of surprises.

"Did he say anything else?"

"Aye, he did my Lord" said the messenger nervously. "I tried to persuade him, and unfortunately, it simply angered him. He asked me to relay this message directly to you."

"Well?"

"Lord Legolas asks you to stop being so over-protective, and says that he is going to stay with his troops regardless of what you do. He then calmed down a bit, my Lord, and said that he would give you all of his luck for the battle, and that he loves you dearly."

Thranduil nodded, his anger dissipating from those last words his son had relayed. "You may go" he muttered. He should have known Legolas would refuse to leave his troops and the forefront of the battle. He should have realised his son would have been angered by his request.

Thranduil sighed as he watched the armies, trying to catch a glimpse of his son. "I only want to keep you safe" he whispered.

0-o-0-o-0

Gandalf, from where he stood next to the King, smiled slightly at Thranduil's look of worry as they watched the battle below. "Fear not" he murmured softly, so only the elf could hear him. "Legolas will be fine."

Thranduil snorted softly. "His definition of 'fine', Mithrandir, is very different from ours."

Gandalf chuckled. "Aye, but remember he is an accomplished warrior, _mellon-nin_. And it has been decades since he was last seriously injured."

"This is not a skirmish in the forest, Mithrandir!" said Thranduil. "This is _war_. He has never fought like this before."

"Settle down, Thranduil" said Gandalf calmly. "He is your most skilled warrior, and will lead those elves well."

Nodding anxiously, Thranduil watched the battle. He leant forwards, unconsciously urging on his warriors as they charged, before sighing with some kind of relief as he saw the goblin ranks waver underneath their bright spears. For countless minutes he watched the raging battle in the valley below, hoping desperately for a quick end to this nightmare.

A shout behind him made the Elven King turn. Goblins had climbed the rocks above them and were now dropping down onto the elves like spiders, their black swords clanging harshly against the bright metal of the elves. The King knew the battle was going ill; the goblins had come in far greater numbers than even Gandalf had known about, and the armies seemed overwhelmed. Thranduil glanced quickly at Gandalf, who nodded, before they both drew their swords and joined the fray.

They fought on for what seemed like an age. No matter how many goblins they cut down, still more appeared, shrieking with delight as elves, men and dwarves fell to their foul blades. Thranduil pressed forwards, his long sword whirling in his hands as he fought to hold their ground against the black tidal wave.

A huge crash filtered in past his concentration, making him whip his head around in search for the noise. Thranduil watched out of the corner of his eye as the great stones crashed down from in front of the gates of Erebor, and the thirteen dwarves, minus Master Baggins, charged out in glittering mail. That thought made Thranduil spin around, searching for the small _perian_ that had indeed risked much over the past few months. He saw no sign of him, but did not know whether to be troubled or relieved at this. After all, the hobbit may have simply gotten to safety before the goblins had overwhelmed them.

As Thranduil continued to battle tirelessly against the horde of goblins, he felt the slight sting of despair creep into his heart. There were too many. There was no way they could win this. Already, Thorin had stupidly pulled many of the dwarves and men, as well as some of his elves down into the valley. He had pushed on, regardless of any tactics, and had paid bitterly. Even the Elven King, with his keen sight, could not see Thorin Oakenshield anymore. And he could not come to his aid. The sheer number of the goblins had isolated the remaining elves on the spur of the valley. They could not push through the hordes to help their kindred. It would be over soon.

Then, seemingly from nowhere, a shrill voice piped up amongst the stained rocks and black bodies, mingled with the fallen bodies of the elves, their light now extinguished as they lay still among the corpses of their enemy.

"The Eagles are coming!"

At these simple words, hope kindled a fire in Thranduil's heart. He lifted his head and saw to his surprise and joy the specks in the sky, growing ever larger as the eagles came. He took up the cry.

"The Eagles! The Eagles are coming!"

0-o-0-o-0

Thranduil's gaze swept over the battlefield. The sun was now sinking in the sky as he wearily picked his way through the black corpses of the goblins. His heart sunk lower whenever he saw an elf, man or dwarf lying among the rocks.

The Elven King's gaze lifted to find Gandalf already below him, journeying steadily through the valley. Thranduil picked up his pace, neatly jumping a large boulder to come and walk beside his friend.

"Mithrandir?" he asked, concern etched across his face as he saw the wizard's arm clasped tightly to his chest.

The wizard just shook his head. "It is simply a flesh wound" he muttered. "It can be bandaged later. Right now, we need to find out what has been happening."

Thranduil nodded in agreement. His keen sight allowed him to spot Bard, standing with a few men among the corpses and rocks. He lifted a hand in greeting as the bowman turned towards them.

Bard, Gandalf and Thranduil met in the midst of the valley. Bard stepped forwards, his grim face troubled.

"Thorin fell."

Thranduil looked at Bard in shock, who tried to elaborate. "He breathes still. Beorn bore him from the field, but there is little hope. He has the night, maybe part of the next day, at a guess. "

Thranduil turned to Gandalf. Strangely, the wizard did not seem surprised.

"You knew, didn't you Mithrandir? You knew this would happen."

Gandalf looked up at the Elven King's soft words, sighing deeply. "Aye" he said simply. "It is what I feared. In my heart, I think I knew this quest would claim his life."

Bard nodded at the words. "What of the Halfling?" he asked. "It would be a sore blow indeed if we had lost one so innocent in this accursed battle. Thorin asks for him, but if he is dead…" He sighed. "He has heard of his nephews already."

Thranduil looked up sharply. "They are dead." It was not a question, merely stating facts.

Gandalf blanched slightly. "Fili and Kili as well" he murmured. "That is a heavy blow. So young. And the last of the line of Durin."

Bard glanced at Gandalf questioningly. "Thorin had no heirs? No sons?"

At the word 'son', Thranduil blanched. Ignoring the questioning look on the face of Bard, and the deeply troubled one on Gandalf's face, he spun around, his eyes roaming the battlefield. He could see no glimpse of his son, and a cold icy hand gripped his heart. Where was he? Where was Legolas?

Thranduil turned back to the small group, his gaze searching out a young man standing behind Bard. He beckoned him forwards. "Are you injured?" Thranduil asked quietly. The young man looked down at the floor, nervous to be in front of the formidable elf. At a shake of his head, the King continued.

"I need you to find any of my people, any elves that are uninjured. Tell them that their King says that they must find Legolas and bring him to the tents. And search for the _perian_ as well. He must be found and brought to Thorin."

The young man frowned. "My…My Liege?" he asked quietly. "I do not know the elven tongue."

Thranduil cursed softly under his breath, trying desperately to remember the Westron name Bard uttered. "Halfling" he said finally.

"His voice was last heard near Ravenhill, that watchtower where the elves stood" said Gandalf. At Thranduil's frown of confusion, Gandalf turned to him. "He was the one who first saw the eagles. I'd know his voice anywhere."

The man bowed deeply. "We will find the halfling and… and…"

"Legolas" said Thranduil impatiently.

The young man nodded. "Of course, my liege." He turned and nearly ran from the small group, leaving behind one incredibly worried Elven King, one injured wizard and a confused bowman.

Bard sidled up to Gandalf as Thranduil turned and began to walk down to the camp. "Who is Legolas?" he muttered. "And why does he want him found?"

Gandalf sighed as he wearily trudged down to the camp. "I think if you were in Thranduil's position, you would do anything to find him" he said softly. "Legolas is his son. He led the first elven charge."

Bard paled. "But then…then he was in the valley, was he not? Thranduil's son was in the valley." He did not need to say any more. Both he and Gandalf knew that many of those who had charged into the valley had paid with their lives.

_To Be Continued_

_I didn't realise until finalising this that this ending is actually a bit of a cliffie! Woops, never mind. This will get rather angsty in the next chapter or so, so be warned._

_Thank you to everyone who has read this, and a double thank you if you review. This will probably come out as about 6 chapters. The next chapter will be up tomorrow._

_Hannon le!_

_Elvish translations (for entire story):_

_Mellon-nin- my friend_

_Perian- hobbit/halfling_

_Saes- please_

_Hannon le- thank you_

_Mitho orch, Oropherion- kiss an orc, son of Oropher (Thranduil's father. It is one of Thranduil's titles)  
_

_Ada/Adar- dad/father_

_Penneth- little one_

_Ion-nin- my son_


	2. Chapter 2

Leading into Battle- Chapter 2

_A/N: For all of those I messaged saying this was the really angsty chapter, it actually isn't. That will be the next chapter. I only realised this when I was splitting up the second chapter, just before publishing it. This one just continues the suspense a little longer *evil grin*, but is slightly shorter than usual, so the next chapter will have a rather tense cliffie. *runs away from angry readers* _

_Disclaimer: see Chapter 1_

Thranduil moved swiftly down the valley, leaving behind the corpses of the orcs, and those who had fallen in the battle. Already the sky was darkening, but torches burnt brightly across the valley as the search for wounded continued.

He paused at the edge of the camp, waiting impatiently for Bard and Gandalf to catch up. He watched the flickering torchlights, fervently praying to all of the Valar for them to find his son. Already the word had spread amongst his people, and he knew Legolas was not in the camp, or lying with the injured. Thranduil gulped. He was still on the battlefield, and he prayed so much that he was simply helping to find wounded, and was not…was not…

He shook his head. He could not think it.

The wizard and man finally caught up, and the three strode into the camp, heading for the tents surrounded by the flickering light of many torches. Here was where the wounded had been taken. Men, elves and dwarves lay on row upon row of pallets. Elves, the most skilled in healing, moved quietly from pallet to pallet, bandages in hand. The wholesome smell of athelas filled the air and the three weary soldiers felt themselves lose the stoop in their shoulders.

Both Bard and Thranduil rejected any offer of treatment from the healers; instead forcing Gandalf to sit down as a healer bandaged his arm. Thranduil smiled slightly at the sight of the ancient and powerful wizard being fussed over, and said ancient and powerful wizard stopped his moaning for a second to glare at the Elven King.

Thranduil returned the glare with his special ice-cold gaze, one that could instantly stop anyone in their tracks. Indeed, Galion, Thranduil's butler, was prepared to swear that he had seen three Mordor orcs instantly stop at that gaze at Dagorlad, just before they had all met with fairly brief, painful deaths at the hands of the King.

Gandalf simply glared even more. "I know how your son feels sometimes" he muttered. At the mention of Legolas, Bard watched as Thranduil's mask slipped for a second. The normal, stern composure vanished and the bowman witnessed the silent struggle of the father inside. The Elven King's face was drawn and pale, even for an elf. But it was only for a minute, before the mask slipped back down and the calm composure of a King came back.

Gandalf stood up; his bandaged arm enclosed in a white sling, and sighed deeply. Thranduil moved away slightly, not letting the wizard see his face, for he would surely see beneath. He knelt down beside the bed of an elf nearby. The elf opened his eyes at the quiet sound, turning his head slightly to see his King kneeling in front of him.

Thranduil gently shushed the wounded elf as he tried to speak. He laid one hand across the elf's forehead and the elf sighed, closing his eyes as sleep took him.

Gandalf sighed, moving off down the rows of pallets towards a solitary tent. "I go to see Thorin" he said quietly.

Bard nodded, watching Gandalf enter the tent. His gaze flickered back to Thranduil, who was moving from elf to elf. Any of his warriors that lay there wounded, he visited, offering a measure of comfort from simple words, or simply from his presence. Not a few elves died desperately grasping the King's hand.

Eventually, when Gandalf did not return, the Elven King and Bard entered Thorin's tent. They sat with the fallen dwarf throughout the night, mending old wounds between them and comforting each other in the darkness of the tent. Many times, men or elves cautiously entered, the men informing Gandalf of the fruitless search for Bilbo, and the elves warily telling their King that his son had not yet been found. Each and every time, Thranduil struggled with the urge to run out onto the battlefield and scream his son's name. Hope that Legolas was whole and uninjured was gone, now he just prayed that he was still alive.

It was past dawn when, as Gandalf was indeed beginning to worry about Bilbo, a shout came from outside. A young man, one of the last sent out to search for the hobbit, came in with the Halfling. Gandalf took him into the tent, and Thranduil and Bard respectfully went their own ways. Thranduil strode to the edge of the camp. Few men now scouted the battlefield; most of the uninjured had set out of scouting parties to vanquish the remaining goblins.

Thranduil sighed deeply as he watched the battlefield anxiously. He did not like to admit it, but he was so afraid. Afraid of seeing his son's body being brought back, lifeless, afraid of never hearing his voice again, or seeing him laugh. Afraid that the thing he loved most in all of the world would be taken from him, snatched away so like his father before. He sighed bitterly. So many elves had died trying to protect their home, and not a few had died trying to protect _him_. He could not let his son join those ranks, could not let him leave. But he had no say in the matter.

Never before had Thranduil felt so powerless as he walked through the camp, his sword by his side. What use was a sword, or a bow, or knives, when he could not use them to do what he most wanted to do, to find what he most wanted to find? He hated feeling powerless, dependent on an ever dwindling hope that his son was alive. Ai Valar, he hated it.

He hated sending Legolas into battle. He hated the fact that his son was so headstrong that he would lead the charge into the valley. Had Legolas listened to him, he might well be safe.

Or he might not have. Thranduil shook his head. Legolas could have died fighting in the valley, but he also could have died on Ravenhill just as easily. So many elves had died there. Too many, maybe. Maybe too many to justify fighting. And yet Thranduil knew he could not think these thoughts. He could not, for how would anyone keep going if he fell into despair?

But if Legolas was...

Then there would be no recovery, maybe. No way back out of the pit he had already begun to dig for himself. No return, not if Legolas was...

Thranduil shook his head angrily. He would not think it. Not now, not when there was still the smallest sliver of hope. He couldn't.

0-o-0-o-0

A weary elf moved across the battlefield, his sharp gaze scanning the ground for any sign of golden hair. In his exhausted state, he stumbled, and would have fallen if it were not for the man at his side, catching his arm.

The dark-haired elf smiled softly at the man. "You have my thanks" he murmured, straightening up. He paused suddenly, seeing a flash of gold, but it was simply a sword reflecting the bright sunlight.

The man sighed. Even if he didn't want to admit it to the elf, he was bone-numbingly tired, and desperately wanted to go back to the camp. "We won't find him alive" he said eventually. "Why shouldn't we just go back?"

The elf spun, staggering slightly in his weariness. "You know nothing of what you speak of!" he hissed. "He will be found. He must be found."

The man held his hands up in defence. "Alright, alright" he muttered. "We will keep searching. But, if you don't mind me asking, why?"

The elf looked up from his search, surprised. "Because he is our Prince" he said simply. "He led us into the battle. He risked his life for us. I think giving up a night in a bed is the least I can do for him."

The man frowned. "But why is he so important? Why have we been searching for over a day for this elf?"

The elf shrugged. "He is our Prince" he said softly, moving through the corpses of Orcs in the midst of the valley. "He would give his life for any of us. And we swore an oath of allegiance, an oath to protect the Woodland Realm at any cost. The King and the Prince _are_ the Woodland Realm. Without them, we would have perished a long time ago. They give us hope." The elf sighed, his dark hair falling over his face. He flicked it back. "We have been out here for a while. Head back to the camp- report to someone. I will stay out here. I will not leave this field before he is found."

The man nodded, and began to head towards the tents. The dark-haired elf watched him go, his keen eyes following him as he entered the camp. Then, with a weary sigh, he resumed the search.

The sun had journey across the sky when the elf reached the heart of the valley, where Thorin had fallen, and Beorn had borne the fallen King under the Mountain from the battle. The dark-haired elf sighed deeply. He attempted to move across an orc's corpse, but in his exhausted state tripped and fell to the rocky ground.

He winced, pushing himself up on grazed hands. Suddenly he froze. There. He could see something. A flash of gold from underneath a mound of the huge orcs, the bodyguards of Bolg. He pulled himself closer, scrambling on his knees over rocks and carcasses. The elf held his breath as he reached the corpses and began to heave the carcasses away, one by one. When he got to the last one, he pushed and it rolled over with a slump. A white knife was buried in its neck.

The dark-haired elf pulled the knife out, sticking it in his belt, but that was not important. His breath caught as he knelt over the figure on the floor. Golden hair fanned out around a bruised and bloody face, and bright red blood covered his shoulder, mingling with the black blood of the orc. The elf reached out with trembling fingers, pressing them underneath his jaw. He murmured softly in surprise.

"He's alive."

0-o-0-o-0

Thorin Oakenshield died soon after the Halfling had been found.

Bard sat down wearily in his tent, his armour cast upon the floor. He would pick it up later; maybe clean it if he had the time. Already he was busy, trying to sort out the aftermath of the battle, as well as the huge problem of the gold.

He sighed, absentmindedly rubbing his forehead. Apparently all the men now saw him in charge. It was up to him to sort out Lake Town, up to him to rebuild Dale. At least Thranduil did not seek to disturb him.

The bowman frowned. Actually, he hadn't seen the Elven King since the morning, when they said a final farewell to Thorin. Thranduil had promptly left as soon as was respectful. He hadn't seen him since.

Bard sighed and stood up. Already his tent was too enclosing, too stuffy. Until a week or so ago, that fateful night when the dragon came, he had been nobody. Now he was a hero, a warrior. He was the heir of Girion, Lord of Dale. He had his own tent. It was quite a lot to take in.

Pushing back the flaps of his tent, he strode out into the camp. The mid-afternoon sun blazed high in the sky as Bard walked to the edge, nearing the battlefield. He needed some air.

The bowman paused as he caught sight of another figure at the edge of the camp. Thranduil stood, looking out across the battlefield. As he watched, the Elven King started to pace, his gaze never leaving the valley. Few now searched the valley for survivors. Indeed, Bard could hardly make out the figures of the last few elves, men and dwarves that moved around the field. It was not likely that there would be any more found alive.

Thranduil turned as he heard Bard approach. He smiled wryly. "If you seek peace and quiet, I am afraid I would not be the best company."

Bard smiled back. "Nay, I simply seek some air" he said quietly. "Everything is quite…overwhelming."

Thranduil nodded, but did not speak. Bard turned and followed his gaze out across the battlefield. "I am sure your son will return, my Lord" he said quietly. "Have hope."

Thranduil sighed. Hope, he thought bitterly. Hope deserted us when the shadow returned, when my kingdom fell. There is little hope for us now.

The Elven King, realising Bard was still standing next to him, turned and started to walk into the camp slightly. Bard tried to change the topic swiftly. "Dale can be retaken now" he said. "But it will be a difficult challenge."

Thranduil sighed softly as he turned away from the battlefield. "Aye, it will be tough" he said. "But I would have you know that I and my Kingdom will be here should you need help." Thranduil stopped, turning to Bard. "I and my people are here for you, should you need assistance. We will not forget what you have done for this world."

Bard looked slightly startled, but remembered his manners quickly. "My deepest thanks, Sire" he said, bowing to the Elven King. "I have a feeling that a lot of help shall be needed."

Thranduil smiled wryly, and the pair began walking again. Suddenly, the Elven King stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing. Bard looked at him questioningly as he spun around. Thranduil froze, and Bard followed his gaze to see two figures stumbling towards the camp.

_To Be Continued_

_Mwahaha! That was also a bit of a cliffie. Woops! Next chapter will be published tomorrow, and I will try to publish one every day after that. It's looking like there will be six chapters overall._

_I just want to say thank you to everyone who has reviewed, though I have sent you all messages. However, _Issy_, I can't send you a message because you don't have an account (I think?) so I want to say here thank you very much for your kind reviews._

_Til the next time!_


	3. Chapter 3

Leading into Battle- Chapter 3

_A/N Mwahaha PREPARE FOR ANGST! This chapter will get rather 'aargh' (I can't think of another way to describe it), so for all those angst/injury lovers out there, enjoy! I have no knowledge of medicine/injuries, so the injuires are probably not very accurate, but it means more angst!  
_

_Disclaimer: see Chapter 1_

Thranduil stifled a cry of horror as his keen elven sight clearly saw the two elves before him. One was cradled in the arms of the other, and as the King watched, they both fell to the ground. Thranduil saw clearly as the second elf bent over the first one. The second elf turned towards them, waving one hand desperately.

"_SAES!"_

The desperate cry spurred the King into action. Bard ran quickly behind him, only stopping to grab a young man by the shoulder. "Fetch the healers" he gasped. "Now!"

The man nodded, and Bard spun, racing after the King. He watched as the King, reaching the fallen elf, fell to his knees. The dark haired elf swayed as Bard finally arrived, and the bowman reached out to steady the elf, who leant wearily against him. Bard placed a hand on Thranduil's shoulder. "Sire" he said hesitantly. "Sire, we must get them back to the tents."

Thranduil nodded, sliding his hands underneath the limp form of the elf as Bard helped the dark-haired elf to rise. As Thranduil stood, Bard glimpsed a sight of golden hair falling over a bloody face marred with bruises. Already, the ground where the elf had been lying was stained red with blood.

Thranduil turned and what Bard saw frightened him. The mask had vanished. Thranduil's face was white; his normally brilliant blue eyes now dimmed and glassy with fear.

Thranduil began to run and despite the seriousness of the situation, Bard was in awe of the King. He seemed to barely touch the ground, floating above it smoothly as he cradled the unconscious elf close to his chest. Bard followed slightly slower, slinging the dark-haired elf's arm around his shoulders as he pulled the exhausted warrior towards the tents. A tight knot of fear settled in his stomach.

He staggered into the camp. The elf was slumped heavily against him; he had nearly lost consciousness. Immediately hands reached out, pulling the wearied warrior from him. Bard looked around to see Gandalf across the camp, and swiftly ran over. "Gandalf!" he cried out.

Gandalf looked up, his brow deepening in confusion. "What has happened Bard?" he asked in his deep voice. "Where is Thranduil?"

Bard shook his head. "I don't know" he said quietly. "We saw two elves approaching camp from the battlefield and ran out to them. One of them was unconscious; Lord Thranduil picked him up and ran for the camp. I brought the other elf in, but I lost sight of the Elvenking. I did not see where he went."

Gandalf sighed. "I did not think anyone else would come in alive" he muttered. "Do you know who this elf was?"

Bard shook his head. "I saw his face, but it was very bloodied and bruised." He paused slightly. "He had golden hair."

Gandalf paled slightly. "And Thranduil ran straight for the camp, you say?"

Bard nodded. "I have never seen him so frightened, though I have not known him long."

The wizard sighed deeply. He turned around and started to walk swiftly through the camp. "We must go to Thranduil's tent" he told Bard as the perplexed bowman followed him. "They may have found him."

Bard frowned. "What do you mean, Gandalf?"

Gandalf did not slow as he answered. "Legolas. That was his son."

0-o-0-o-0

Thranduil sprinted into camp, gently cradling the limp bundle against his chest. Already, he could feel warm blood soaking into his tunic. Shallow breaths rasped from the unconscious form he held. His face paled even more when the breaths faltered slightly, and quickened his pace.

Startled elves spun around as their King raced past. The healers, alerted to the injured warrior, immediately turned and began to sprint after him. The flash of blond hair that they saw as they ran behind Thranduil only made them quicken their pace.

The few elves left in the camp looked at each other. Their expressions varied from the puzzled to the deeply worried as they saw the King disappear into his tent with the healers.

0-o-0-o-0

Thranduil gasped for breath as he gently laid his son down on his pallet. Healers moved in, cutting away the blood soaked tunic, but Thranduil did not move from where he knelt in a daze. Legolas' face fell towards him as the healers gently removed the bloody clothing, and the King could not stifle his gasp of horror.

His son's face was a myriad of bruises and blood. The blond hair, usually so vibrant, was dull and limp. Thranduil hardly recognised him.

The flaps of the tent stirred, sending a cold rush of air into the tent. Thranduil glanced up to see Gandalf and Bard approach slowly. The wizard placed a comforting hand on the King's shoulder as all three warriors watched the healers work.

"Do not fret, Thranduil" Gandalf muttered softly. "Legolas is strong. You know he will survive this."

Thranduil merely nodded as he watched the healers work. His face lost any colour that it had regained as the final pieces of tunic were stripped away. Bard struggled to stifle a gasp as he saw the elf's torso.

Deep gashes scored Legolas' torso where orc blades had pierced his armour, and one jagged stab wound ripped clean through his shoulder. The elf was black and blue with deep bruises that spread across his entire right side.

Bard stepped forwards, his feet dragging along the ground. "Sire" he said hesitantly, continuing when Thranduil nodded. "Sire, I spoke to the elf who found your son. He told me that they had found him in the midst of the valley."

Thranduil turned to fix stormy blue eyes on the bowman, who gulped before continuing. "He had been buried under orcs, Sire. It was why they hadn't found him until now."

Bard gulped again, retrieving an item from his belt. "Thranduil" he said gently. The King's eyes cleared slightly at the sound of his name. "He was directly beneath a bodyguard of Bolg. They found his knife buried in its neck. They think he killed it just before passing out himself." He held out Legolas' knife in his hands, almost reverently. It was completely covered in black blood.

Thranduil sighed, and momentarily released Legolas' hand, that he had been holding, to stand up. He held out his hand and gingerly accepted the bloody knife. The Elvenking turned it over in his hands, gazing at it intently.

Sudden choking sounds made him spin around, dropping the knife at his feet. Thranduil's heart literally leapt into his mouth as he watched his son twitch, before scarlet blood spilt from his mouth and he started to thrash, choking on his own blood.

The healers rushed forwards as they struggled to help. Thranduil's voice choked in his throat as he watched his son's struggles grow weaker and weaker as the pallet beneath him turned red. He watched, frozen and helpless, as his son slowly stilled, his breaths rasping as he gasped for air.

Thranduil watched as Legolas' chest rose slowly in one last shuddering gasp for air. It did not rise again.

0-o-0-o-0

A glass wall fell around Thranduil. He could not move. He could only hear his own breaths, rasping in his chest. How cruel, he thought bitterly, that he could breathe so easily. He stood helplessly as the healers moved frantically around the body on the pallet. He could do nothing. The world was silenced, out of reach.

Through the haze, he saw one elf reach for a pulse. Thranduil did not see anyone else around him; did not feel Gandalf's comforting hand on his shoulder or the presence of Bard at his side. His gaze was transfixed on the slender fingers reaching under the neck, probing gently.

Thranduil gazed through the glass wall as the healer suddenly jumped into action, pushing down steadily on his son's chest with her hands, again and again.

And from that movement, the world shattered into silver glass.

Thranduil heard someone screaming. He felt strong arms wrap around his shoulders as he fought, for this could not be real. This could not be happening. It was not possible; for there was no way that his son could be dying in front of him.

Thrashing madly, he tore out of the strong grip, falling down beside the body. He reached out, enveloping his son in his strong arms. A scream ripped out of him.

"NO!"

Thranduil clung to Legolas fiercely as Gandalf moved closer. He looked around, still clinging to his son's body, his tunic soaked with blood. "DO SOMETHING!" he screamed. "ALL OF YOU! MITHRANDIR! DO SOMETHING!"

He looked desperately up at the healers and wizard surrounding him. He saw their helpless looks, the hands still pushing down on Legolas' chest, and something inside of him crumbled. "NO!" he screamed again. Tears spilled from the blue eyes, streaming down the pale face as Thranduil collapsed on top of his son. He shook Legolas' shoulders. "This can't be real." He turned to the others again. "Tell me this isn't real. TELL ME!"

He knew before he had finished speaking that they could not, and broke down as fresh waves of grief racked his body. "Tell me this isn't real. Please. It can't be real. TELL ME!"

_To Be Continued_

_Angsty enough? *evil grin* I might just go hide now... Remember if you hunt me down you will never find out what happens! This chapter is a bit shorter than normal, but that is so I could end it on this mega cliffie. Sorry! (Well no, I'm not really)._

_Thanks again to everyone who reviews! Next chapted will be up tomorrow._


	4. Chapter 4

Leading into Battle- Chapter 4

_Here it is! I promised I would upload this chapter the next day. I actually researched this- what happens medically is very rare, but apparently is possible. Anyway, this is fanfiction, and there is more angst this way. Besides, I'm pretty sure elves never had defibrillators. *evil grin*  
_

_Disclaimer: see Chapter 1_

"TELL ME!"

The scream rang through the tent and the camp _and echoed through the dark spaces inside his mind, so deep was the grief that had led it forth, until it found the tiny spark, slowing being quenched by the blackness. It fed the spark, which turned into a flame, which turned into a fire, which pushed against the darkness, racing through the empty mind until it burned._

Gandalf watched the grieving King with tears in his eyes. Bard had turned away, trying to stem the gushing blood from his nose that Thranduil had broken when struggling against his grip. The healers had stopped moving. Thranduil was slumped over Legolas' body. It was still in the tent, silent.

Suddenly Thranduil stiffened. His elegant fingers slowly uncurled from his fierce grip on Legolas' shoulders as they reached under his neck. Gandalf moved forwards as Thranduil sat up slowly, his eyes wide. His fingers did not leave Legolas' neck, as if he was afraid that if he moved them, it would disappear.

Gandalf came next to the pallet and reached out. He placed a gentle hand on the younger elf's chest. His eyes widened in surprise, he turned to the healers, just as Legolas' chest rose slowly in a gasp for air.

"He lives."

Tears spilt from Thranduil's eyes as he watched his son's face. A wan smile broke through the mask and he sighed with relief. Strong arms pulled him back again, but this time he did not resist and allowed himself to be pulled away. The healers moved in as Legolas, still unconscious, gasped for precious air.

One of the healers turned to see Thranduil standing in a daze. She glared at him. "Out!"

Thranduil blinked before frowning. "What did you say?" he asked. It was hard to tell whether his voice was angry or just confused.

The healer sighed. Glancing at Legolas, she turned and swiftly came to stand in front of the King. He noticed her hands were already crimson red. "Get out" she said again. "You can't be in here whilst we work."

Thranduil's frown simply deepened. The healer sighed. "Look" she said, her voice softening slightly. "You shouldn't be in here. I promise we will let you know as soon as anything changes." She grabbed his arm and turned him around, pushing him towards the opening of the tent.

Thranduil resisted, spinning around to look back at his son. He could only see brief glimpses of him as the healers moved swiftly around the pallet. He glanced back at the healer. "You must promise me" he said quietly. "Promise me that if anything happens, if the slightest thing changes, you will find me. You must promise!"

The slightly wild look in the King's eyes left the healer with no hesitation. "I promise" she said clearly. She pushed him towards the flaps and Thranduil stumbled out into the bright sunlight. The healer smiled slightly as Bard pushed past her and stood behind the King, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I promise we will find you in time."

In time. The exact words were not spoken, but the King could guess what it was the healer meant. They would find him in time to say goodbye.

Thranduil suddenly turned away, weary beyond belief, and the tent flaps fell shut. Bard stood with him in silence as the King sighed deeply. He moved away from the tent into the camp. Bard followed him as they came to the centre of the camp, where a large fire burnt. Despite the bright sun, there was a chill in the air.

A silence fell over the clearing as the King and Bard appeared. Many of them there were elves, awaiting news of their Prince. They looked up as Thranduil came into view.

Thranduil did not even seem to notice them. He sighed again, wiping a hand across his brow in weariness. Frowning, for he felt something wet across his face, he looked at his hands.

His face lost any colour that it had regained. His hands were covered in bright crimson blood. It glinted in the sunlight. Droplets fell from his fingertips as he turned them over, silent in horror.

He looked down, truly looking this time, and saw the same blood spattered across his tunic. The same crimson blood that adorned his hands. The same blood that had soaked into the pallet. The same blood that had fallen from his son.

Bard saw the transfixed gaze of the Elven King. One of the elves stood up shakily, shedding the blanket from around his shoulders. Wordlessly, he held it out.

Thranduil did not respond. His hands were covered in his son's blood. He turned his hands over and over, and was disgusted and intrigued at how the silver-red blood glistened in the light from the fire, how it clung to his hands, unwilling to let go. Legolas' blood. His son's blood. How had it come to this?

Revulsion suddenly rose in him and he gulped. _His son's blood_. He looked up to see an elf, one of his warriors, standing up shakily. The elf was holding out his blanket. Thranduil took it in a daze.

He slowly wiped the blood away from the back of one of his hands. It left a smear across his hand and he wiped it again. He saw pale skin underneath the red blood, and he suddenly started rubbing frantically at his hands with the rough blanket. Again and again he scrubbed at skin that had been crimson red with blood, until his hands were pale and clean once more.

And even then it wasn't enough. Even then, when he looked at his hands he could still see them glowing in the firelight. The blanket dropped out of his hands and fell softly onto the grass, spotted with blood. Thranduil stared at the ground.

It was red, he thought absently. The packed mud beneath his feet where the grass had been churned up was dark red. It was the colour of dried blood, old blood, thought Thranduil, and at that point the revulsion rose up in him once more. He looked at the fire. Why did the world have to be so red?

Bard put a comforting hand on his shoulder, but Thranduil hardly felt it. The full enormity of what had happened began to well and truly sink into him, and he trembled at the memories seared into his mind. Those too were so full of red. His legs buckled and he sank to the mud, the red mud. He didn't see anything around him, didn't notice the hushed conversation between Bard and the elves surrounding the fire.

Which meant that he didn't see the looks of horror on the elves' faces when Bard explained what had happened. Nor did he hear their muted conversation, the whispers of news scurrying amongst the elves. He was locked in a world of red.

Bard sighed and knelt on the floor beside Thranduil. "Sire?" he said. "Thranduil?"

Thranduil turned his head slightly, his clouded eyes coming to rest on Bard's face. Even the bowman's face was red, he thought, red from the dried blood covering it. He frowned. "What…what happened to your face?"

Bard hesitated. Truthfully, Thranduil himself had broken his nose when Bard had tried to pull him back from Legolas, but he didn't know if he should say that. He scratched at the dried blood, revealing skin underneath.

"From the battle" he said softly.

Thranduil nodded and turned his head back so he was looking at the fire again. The light reflected in his eyes, making them seem to glow. Bard glanced at the elves sitting around him.

"What should I do?" he asked softly. "He…I…" He sighed. "Is there anything I can do?"

The elves watched their King silently, but only sorrow filled their eyes. "There is…little" said one elf. "But perhaps we can do something." He turned to the elf sitting next to him and whispered something. That elf nodded, and soon the whispers spread once more around the fire. Thranduil remained motionless.

And then a sweet voice started to sing. Soft and fragile, it rose into the sky, and other voices followed it, some sad, some peaceful, some sweet. Bard listened in awe as the elves sang aloud to the sky. Though he understood none of the words, he knew, somehow, that it was about clear skies and forests, and the sun rising over hills and spilling its rays on the grass, which glinted with the morning dew. And as Bard listened he felt a stillness come over everything. It was not a weariness, no, for he did not feel tired at all. But there was no need to move, no need to do anything apart from listen.

Thranduil raised his head slowly, listening as the song wove its way around him, speaking of too many things for him to grasp, lest it all slip away. His eyes looked up from the dark red earth, past the flickering red fire, and up until he saw the sky above them all.

It was so blue.

0-o-0-o-0

Thranduil closed his eyes as the song neared an end, willing it to go on for just a little longer. But everything comes to an end, and the last notes flickered and faded into the warm air. Beside him Bard blinked, as if waking up from a long dream to find that reality just doesn't seem real.

Thranduil sighed. He felt more awake than he had done in days, and he even managed to smile slightly. He looked down at his hands, and they trembled slightly as he breathed in deeply.

Others had joined the campfire now, men and dwarves and elves all sitting together. A silence was over all of them, but as the song ended it slowly broke, like the trickling of water from a dam, until the quiet murmurs of conversation could be heard all around.

Thranduil pulled himself up. Aye, he was not so dazed now, but he was still so…nervous. He glanced behind him, in the direction of his tent, but even all the wishing in the world cannot make tent walls invisible, nor can it speed up the waiting. He sighed again.

Bard seated himself on the mud next to Thranduil, hesitantly wiping away the dried blood from his nose. He grimaced slightly as he caught it. A man came over and crouched next to him and Bard turned to have a whispered conversation with him. It ended with the man nodding and moving quickly away, and with a sigh from Bard.

Thranduil glanced again at the tents behind him. His jaw was clenched now, and his hands were balled into fists. He looked down and seemed surprised to see them like that. With effort, he unclenched them and spread his pale fingers wide.

He sighed. "I hate this part."

Bard looked over at him. "What part?" he asked gently.

"This" said Thranduil. "The waiting, the not knowing. Ai Valar, if only I could…" He fell silent. He didn't really know what he wanted to be able to do. Being able to speed up time would be nice. So would being able to keep everyone safe, or being able to hold the borders of Mirkwood without fighting for them. Simply knowing whether his son was safe or not, that would be good as well.

Bard bit his lip. "I know" he said quietly. "It would be nice, for once, to be able to just live in peace, to just have a normal day."

"But it won't ever happen" said Thranduil. "You know that, right?" He laughed, but it was bitter and hollow. "I don't think I can remember a day when I was not worried, or a day when nobody had to fight or get ready to fight or think about fighting. In Mirkwood, there are no such days like that."

Bard nodded. "There may come some eventually" he said. "You never know."

Thranduil shook his head. "I know" he said. Not until the darkness was defeated would there be a peaceful day. Not until Mordor was destroyed and all the fell creatures with it, would he be able to put down his sword. He stopped himself from sighing again. And when would that ever happen? Nobody in Mirkwood had been safe for many hundreds of years. To believe that it could all change, that it could all turn around…?

It was just too much to believe in.

_To Be Continued_

_Is Legolas going to be alright?Is Thranduil going to be alright? Next chapter will be up tomorrow. Elvish translations for the entire story are in chapter 1._

_Please, pwetty pwetty pwease review! It would seriously make my day :)_


	5. Chapter 5

Leading into Battle- Chapter 5

_Easing off on the angst now, I think. This is the second to last chapter (I think, but I might end up writing another scene before the end). Thank you to all those who have reviewed. _

_Disclaimer: see Chapter 1 (elvish translations are also there)_

It may have been ages; it may have only been a few hours. Thranduil didn't know. But it had been long enough for the lethargy in his limbs to vanish and be replaced with a burning worry. He paced back and forth across the fire, Bard watching him.

A sudden noise made him twist, staring into the flickering torchlight. A figure came closer, silhouetted in the red light. Thranduil jumped. He knew that figure anywhere. He spun around as the aged wizard approached.

"Mithrandir!" he cried out. "What news?" His heart pounded in his chest, and the sound seemed to consume everything.

The wizard smiled slightly, and in that moment Thranduil felt a great weight disappear from his shoulders. He sagged in relief. "He is alive."

Mithrandir nodded, and turned to walk away from the fire. Thranduil followed him, speeding up as he realised that they were heading to his tent. The elves and Bard, smiling, watched them leave. "You have been a long time, Mithrandir." It was not accusatory, simply a statement. Thranduil did not feel he had the strength to dare accuse the wizard of anything.

Gandalf sighed, his shoulders stooped in weariness. "There was much to do, Thranduil" he muttered. "On top of the gashes and the stab wound, most of his ribs are broken." Gandalf turned to the King. "You saw the bruising, _mellon-nin_. They are quite severe crush injuries, and it didn't help that he was under those orcs for a day before he was found."

Thranduil nodded. He stopped just as they came in sight of the tent. Hanging back in the shadows, he turned to face Gandalf. "Mithrandir" he said quietly. "Promise me; swear to me on the Valar, that you will answer me truthfully when I ask this question."

Gandalf frowned, but nodded. "I promise" he said.

Thranduil's eyes flashed. "Swear it!"

"I swear on Elbereth that I will answer you truthfully." Now that Gandalf saw Thranduil properly, he was worried. Very worried indeed. His skin seemed translucent and pale; his eyes were dimmed. His hands clenched and unclenched, again and again.

The King nodded. "Good" he murmured. "Now Mithrandir, will Legolas live? Will he be alright?"

Gandalf sighed, regretting the oath already. "I don't know" he said eventually. "He is still weak; he lost a lot of blood and we cannot move him much, for fear of causing his ribs to break even further. He struggles to breathe at points, and is intermittently coughing up blood, though the pain seems to be too much, for he slips back into unconsciousness afterwards." He stopped, seeing the wild, desperate look in Thranduil's eyes and the constant shaking of his hands.

"Please" whispered the King, his voice hoarse. "Answer me."

"I do believe" said Gandalf hesitantly. "That the worst is behind us. I am not certain that he will survive, but I think that there is…more chance…of him surviving than…." He finished and stepped back slightly, unsure of the reaction he would get.

Thranduil stood still, hidden in the shadows. He blinked, trying to sort through the mess in his head to find something. Was there hope? Was there finally hope?

He had to believe it. He had to believe _something_.

Gandalf stepped out of the way as Thranduil's head swung up. The King strode forwards and pulled back the flap of the tent.

He stopped dead in the entrance. The healers gradually parted to reveal a white pallet. His son lay on top of it.

Thranduil only had eyes for Legolas. He lay there, so still, he could be breathing or not and Thranduil would not have been able to tell. White bandages wrapped around his entire torso and shoulder. One leg of his leggings had been cut away, and the lower part of the leg was swathed in more bandages. The little of his skin that could be seen was either deathly pale, almost translucent, or a myriad of brilliant bruises. His long golden hair had been simply plaited, and fell limply over one shoulder.

It seemed like an enchantment had come over the King, he stood so still. But then Legolas moved slightly, and a faint moan escaped his lips. The spell broke, and Thranduil rushed forwards, pushing past the healers to fall down to his knees beside his son. Legolas twisted his head, a harsh cough forcing its way out of his lungs.

One of the healers came to the other side of the pallet. Gently reaching out, she lifted Legolas' head gently and turned it to the side. Another placed a cloth underneath his head. It seemed to be just in time, for as the healer lowered Legolas' head back to the pillow, another harsh cough erupted from his lungs and this time, crimson blood followed it, spilling from his mouth onto the cloth.

Thranduil, kneeling beside the pallet, reached out and gently pulled a stray strand of hair out of Legolas' face as he coughed violently. As the cloth darkened, the healers quickly lifted Legolas' head and put a fresh cloth underneath. Thranduil watched, silent.

It seemed like minutes until Legolas fell silent, a thin trickle of blood spilling from his mouth. The pain was too much, and he had slipped back into darkness. The healer gently turned his head back, pulling the final blood-soaked cloth from the pallet. She sighed, throwing it to one side of the tent. "It is less than it was, Sire" she said gently.

Thranduil showed no sign of hearing her. Instead, he reached for one of the few clean cloths in the tent and began to gently wipe the blood from his son's face. Legolas was unconscious now. "Leave us" he said quietly.

One of the healers frowned. "Sire?" she asked hesitantly.

Thranduil waved his hand dismissively, not even looking up from his son as he turned the cloth over in his hand, finding a clean spot. "I know what to do" he said softly. "Go and see to the others."

The healer opened her mouth, but a soft cough from Gandalf made her close it abruptly. Gathering the equipment, they left. Thranduil smiled faintly. "_Hannon le_, Mithrandir" he muttered.

Gandalf sighed. Walking over to the pallet, he sat down on the floor. Thranduil, putting down the cloth, turned and leant wearily against the pallet. He sat up again as the tent flaps opened and Bard came through quietly, carrying a pile of clean cloths. He placed them on the floor next to the pallet.

"How is he?" he asked softly, not sure if he would even get a reply.

Thranduil shook his head, but did not answer. Gandalf looked up from where he sat on the floor. "Only time will tell" he said wearily.

Thranduil sighed, twisting to look at the limp figure of his son on the pallet. "Why did this have to happen, Mithrandir?"

Gandalf shook his head. "I don't know _mellon-nin_, but we cannot change what has already happened. All we have to-"

"Yes, yes I know" said Thranduil abruptly. "All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us." He said this last past in an awful impersonation of Gandalf. Bard stifled a laugh, whilst Gandalf simply glared at the Elven King.

"If you do not want my advice, Thranduil, then I will simply not give it." The glare disappeared as Gandalf saw Bard, who was biting his lip in an attempt to stop himself laughing.

Thranduil looked up and smiled at the bowman. "This is the peril of knowing Mithrandir, Bard" he said, waving a hand languidly at the wizard across the tent. "You get this sort of nonsense drilled into you constantly."

Gandalf smiled. "_Mitho Orch, Oropherion_" he mumbled. Thranduil's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Why Mithrandir!" he exclaimed. "I do not know if there are any orcs left for me to kiss. What a pity."

Bard snorted at the idea, biting his lip again. At a glare from Gandalf, he broke down into peals of laughter, accompanied soon by the wizard.

The laughter broke off when Legolas suddenly stirred and moaned, twisting his head. Thranduil leapt to his feet and rushed to the side of the pallet. He placed one hand on his son's forehead, the other holding his hand as he muttered soothing words. Legolas gradually stilled and Thranduil sighed heavily. He turned, sitting down beside the pallet.

Gandalf smiled sympathetically. "I know just what you need, _mellon-nin_" he said softly. He reached behind him, pulling out a small bottle of deep red wine. Bard smiled, reaching for some rough cups that had been left in the tent and handed them out.

Thranduil watched as Gandalf poured the wine, and looked critically at his cup. "Well, I can say one thing, _mellon-nin_."

Gandalf looked up from pouring Bard's cup. "Hmm?"

Thranduil smiled wryly. "At least you don't withhold the Dorwinion."

Gandalf chuckled, and raised his cup in a toast. "To victory" he said.

Bard raised his cup. "To victory" he echoed.

Thranduil glanced at Legolas. Was this what it was? He had to hope so. He raised his cup.

"To victory."

0-o-0-o-0

The first faint rays of the sun were creeping over the horizon, sneaking into the dark shadows in the tent. Thranduil sat, leaning against the pallet wearily. Gandalf had left not long after the wine had been finished, to see Thorin's grieving companions. Bard had left soon after, leaving Thranduil the only one in the tent, though the healers were never far, and often checking on Legolas anyway.

A sudden choking sound propelled him to his knees. He spun around, his heart twisting as he saw Legolas' pale face, drawn in pain as he coughed harshly.

Thranduil swiftly turned his head to the side, grabbing a cloth from the floor. He slipped it under his son's head, gently massaging his chest with practised ease. Legolas had been coughing throughout the night, and though they had tried to hide it, the healers had been worried for a while. But the coughing had become less and less often, with less and less blood staining the cloth red.

As the coughing subsided and the harsh rasping of Legolas' breaths filled the tent, Thranduil placed the cloth to the side. Only a little blood spattered the white cloth and Thranduil sighed with some relief. He turned back to the pallet and was greeted by the sight of tired grey eyes.

Legolas smiled weakly. "_Ada_" he whispered.

Thranduil froze. All this time, ever since he had returned to his son's side, ever since that faint spark of hope had been ignited, he had thought of a million things to say to Legolas. Now, however, he was frozen. He didn't know what to say.

Legolas, his silver grey eyes still slightly unfocused, tried to push himself up. He fell back down as pain coursed down his side, his breath rasping harshly.

Thranduil shook his head, his eyes glittering as he smiled at his son. "Don't move" he said softly. He reached behind him, grabbing a small cup of water. Slipping one arm behind Legolas' head, he gently raised it, allowing the water to trickle into his mouth.

"Where…where am I?" murmured Legolas, his eyes roving around the tent. "What…?"

"It's alright" said Thranduil softly as Legolas started to cough. "It's ok. You're safe, you are going to be fine. I'm right here with you."

Legolas tried to smile, but his eyelids were falling shut and he was struggling to keep them open. He tried to blink and raise his head, but his battered body screamed in protest and he relaxed back into the pallet.

Thranduil gently rearranged the blanket covering him. "It's alright" he murmured. "Go to sleep. I'm right here." Legolas' eyelids slid shut and within moments he relaxed, his face free of the pain that he had felt. Thranduil gently stroked his face, his pale fingers skimming over the bright bruises down Legolas' cheeks.

"I'm right here" he murmured again. He sighed with relief and let a small smile slip across his face. He sat down next to the pallet and allowed his mind to wander slightly.

Legolas had awoken. He would be alright. He smiled again. It would be alright. He would not lose, not again.

"I should have believed it" he muttered, his eyes unfocusing slightly as he drifted to sleep. The tent around him was pale and light, and the rush mats underneath his feet were not red in the slightest.

_To Be Continued..._

_There, that wasn't too angsty! One last chapter left, which is tidying things up a bit. Thank you all for reviewing and reading!_


	6. Chapter 6

Leading into Battle- Chapter 6

_A/N: This is it! The last chapter. Thank you so much to all of those who have reviewed this, and thank you to everyone who has read it as well. I never expected this fanfic to become so popular. _

_Disclaimer: see Chapter 1_

Thranduil jerked awake, spinning around frantically to check on Legolas. He smiled slightly as he saw him still sleeping, his face finally peaceful. He gently stroked the pale face, smiling slightly as he watched him.

A slight cough from the tent entrance made him turn around. Gandalf stood there, watching him. Thranduil smiled as he stood up and left the pallet. "Mithrandir" he said warmly.

Gandalf smiled. "I take it he awoke, then."

"Aye" said Thranduil simply. "It was only an hour or so ago." He sighed with relief. "He will be fine."

"As I told you" Gandalf grumbled. He smiled as behind Thranduil Legolas began to stir. "Remember Thorin is to be buried today" he said, leaving quietly as Thranduil turned back to the pallet. He got a small nod in reply.

Thranduil knelt down beside the pallet again, his smile soft as he brushed back a lock of hair. "Welcome back" he murmured.

"Where…?"

"You're in my tent, outside the Lonely Mountain" said Thranduil softly. "Ai Valar, Legolas, you scared me so much. I thought…I don't know what I thought." He sighed. "I came so very close to losing you. The last few days have been a nightmare."

Legolas frowned. "How long?" he whispered.

"It has been two days since the battle" Thranduil said softly. "We found you yesterday."

"The battle…" Legolas whispered softly. Sudden memories flooded back to him and he struggled against the heaviness in his limbs. "What happened?" he rasped.

Thranduil stroked a stray lock of hair back from Legolas' forehead. "We won, _penneth_." He smiled slightly. "You were found last morning, underneath a mound of orcs. No, don't move!" he cried out softly as Legolas struggled again. Thranduil reached out, gently grasping Legolas' shoulders to still the younger elf. The blond elf reluctantly stilled, gasping for air.

Thranduil smiled softly. "You have outdone yourself this time, _ion-nin_." Legolas managed a weak smile at his father and Thranduil, his heart lightened by the sight, continued. "You've broken most of the ribs down both sides from being crushed by the orcs. On top of that, there were several gashes and a scimitar had gone clean through your collarbone. Quite bad crush injuries, the healers say."

Legolas sighed, looking down at his bruised and battered body. Thranduil gently pushed on Legolas' side. "How do your ribs feel, _ion_?"

Legolas grimaced. "Sore" he whispered.

Thranduil chuckled. "Are you actually telling the truth now?"

Legolas smiled slightly. "Aye" he whispered, but to him it wasn't the whole truth. His ribs felt like they were on fire every time he took a breath, and his entire body ached. His face felt tight where it was bruised and swollen, and it hurt to talk.

He shifted slightly and then suddenly tensed as pain flared up all along his side. He tried to relax but it was so painful that he couldn't. He grimaced in pain, trying to stop a moan from escaping his lips.

Thranduil grabbed hold of Legolas' hand and Legolas gripped it tightly, trying to suppress a cry. "It's alright" said Thranduil. "It's ok. Just try to relax."

Slowly Legolas managed to sink back onto the pallet and unclenched his jaw. He realised his hand was locked around his father's and he let go slowly. "Sorry" he whispered.

Thranduil flexed his fingers, wincing slightly. "Don't be" he murmured. "I still have my fingers."

Legolas chuckled slightly, but the slight movement sent a spike of pain down his side and he gasped.

Thranduil frowned. "The burial for Thorin is today, but maybe I should stay here" he mused.

Legolas turned his head slightly, his face still white. "He died?" he asked, his voice incredulous.

Thranduil blanched, forgetting that his son knew nothing of the losses in the battle. "Aye, and those two young dwarves, Fili and Kili. Many lost their lives, elves, dwarves and men. You were the last brought back alive from the field." He sighed softly at the memory. "You should have seen our warriors, _penneth_. They were overjoyed to know you were alive. They love their Prince."

Legolas shook his head. "They need their King."

Thranduil paused, not sure how to respond to that. He frowned, and his confusion was seemingly obvious to his son.

Legolas smiled. "They need their King, _Adar_" he repeated. "It may have been foolish to lead the first charge, yes, I know. I know I know little of actual war besides the old stories, but if I went back, I would still lead them. I would still do it."

Thranduil frowned. "Why?"

"Because someone has to, _Adar_. Someone has to lead them." Legolas paused, already exhausted from simply being awake. "The people need hope. I have learnt, over all this time, how important hope is. Our warriors cannot have hope if we do not. That is why I led the charge. To show that I believed in them."

Thranduil smiled. "When did you become wiser than me, _ion-nin_?"

Legolas managed a small laugh. "Will you...go?" he asked.

"Aye" said Thranduil. "I will." He sighed deeply. "I only wish you were well enough to come with me. Ai, I wish you were never injured in the first place." He stopped, and smiled slightly. "But it is not your fault, remember that _ion-nin_. It is not your fault."

Legolas nodded and Thranduil gently stroked back a stray lock of his son's golden hair. "The healers will be outside, waiting for me to leave" he said. "Make sure you sleep once they have seen you. I will be here when you wake."

Legolas nodded. "Go be their King" he whispered, his eyes already drifting shut in exhaustion.

Thranduil nodded, gathering his armour and sword. "I will, _ion-nin_" he promised.

0-o-0-o-0

Bilbo Baggins sniffed loudly as he walked away from the Lonely Mountain. Slipping one hand into his old tattered waistcoat he pulled out a pocket handkerchief. This wasn't any of his own- he had borrowed this one from one of the elves.

His mind drifted back to the past hour or so. Thorin had just been buried in the heart of the Lonely Mountain, the Arkenstone finally returned to him by Bard. King Thranduil had placed Orcrist, Thorin's sword, on top of the tomb where he rested. The Elvenking had spoken some brief words and the sword had flared blue for a moment. In the days after the minstrels sang that the sword glowed bright whenever enemies were near.

Bilbo reached the camp; trying futilely to dry his eyes, he stowed his handkerchief in a pocket and looked around. Most of the dwarves, including his companions, had stayed behind at the Lonely Mountain, and the camp mainly contained elves and men. Most of them had not yet returned from the Lonely Mountain, though the healers and more grievously wounded had stayed in camp.

Bilbo frowned. Actually, the Elvenking Thranduil might be here as well. He had been at Thorin's tomb, yet as soon as the company, containing the Elvenking, Bard, Dain and the remaining companions of Thorin had left, an elf had come up to the Elvenking. The she-elf had exchanged brief, muttered words with him, and Bilbo had watched out of the corner of his eye as King Thranduil's face had changed from confused to concerned, and then from concerned to downright worried. Thranduil had made his way quickly to Gandalf and Bard and had spoken briefly to them before turning with the healer and making his way briskly towards the camp. The rest of the company had wandered back, though Gandalf had walked quickly, his eyes on the retreating figure of Thranduil.

Bilbo looked around as a group of men reached the camp, and saw Bard among them. He saw, however, no sign of Gandalf, and it was Gandalf that he wanted to talk to. Bilbo made his way to Bard.

"Bard!" he cried in greetings.

Bard smiled. "Master Baggins" he said. "How may I help you?"

"Begging your pardon, but have you seen Gandalf?" asked Bilbo. "He came back here rather quickly."

Bard shook his head. "No, I haven't" he said, his gaze darkening slightly. "He may be in King Thranduil's tent."

"Oh dear" murmured Bilbo. He was still quite intimidated by the formidable Elvenking. "Do you know why?" he asked, looking up at Bard.

But Bard had already turned away, talking to one of the elves nearby. Bilbo sighed and made his way into the camp towards Thranduil's tent. He would look inside, just to see if Gandalf was there, before looking elsewhere. He didn't want to disturb the King.

Bilbo reached Thranduil's tent. Inside he could hear murmurs, though they were too soft for him to make out words. The swish of robes against the floor came from inside, and Bilbo summed up a bit of courage and pulled back the tent flap.

He paused in the entrance. Gandalf was not with Thranduil, yet the Elvenking was not alone. Bilbo stood silently at the tent entrance as he watched Thranduil. The tent was nearly the same as he remembered it, the night he had handed over the Arkenstone, yet there was one major difference.

Thranduil was knelt by the side of a low cot against the other side of the tent. Bilbo watched as the King shifted slightly and he saw the other elf.

The elf had been grievously wounded in the battle, thought Bilbo. His face was beaded with sweat and his body covered in bandages. As he watched, the elf shook slightly as another wave of pain passed over him, his face contorted in a grimace.

Thranduil leant forwards, and Bilbo was surprised by how much the Elvenking had changed from when he had seen him at the battle. His face was no longer stern and proud; rather, it was anxious and worried, yet loving at the same time. Bilbo watched as Thranduil gently smoothed back the limp golden hair from the wounded elf's face.

"It's ok" Thranduil murmured, and Bilbo was again astounded at the change. He wondered who the wounded elf was. It had to be someone close to Thranduil, he thought, yet he could not remember anyone like that on top of Ravenhill. He might have seen the elf in the Elvenking's halls, but he had not been overly concerned with which elf was which at that point.

"It's alright" said the King softly, taking a wet cloth and gently wiping away the sweat from the other elf's face. "It's going to be fine, it's ok. Don't worry, I'm here."

The wounded elf tried to move, managing to raise his torso a few inches off the cot, before falling back down with a stifled moan of pain. Thranduil seemed to instantly be at the elf's side with a cup. Sliding one hand under the wounded elf's head, he raised it and brought the cup to his lips.

"Drink" he murmured. "Just drink. It will help."

The elf sipped from the cup and Thranduil smiled slightly, so unlike the stern and warlike King Bilbo had known. "There we go" he said softly.

Soon the cup was empty and Thranduil put it down by the cot. The wounded elf grimaced again, and one of his hands reached up. Bilbo watched as he grasped as Thranduil's sleeve weakly, his fingers catching on the thick fabric. Bilbo half expected Thranduil to push the hand away, and so was mildly astonished to see Thranduil grasp the hand tightly, his other hand gently stroking the elf's face.

"I'm here" he said soothingly, a small smile gracing his face. "It's alright, I'm here. Go to sleep, don't worry. It's ok. I'm here."

The elf's eyes slid shut and soon he breathed evenly, his face relaxed as he slept. Thranduil did not move, except for the hand that gently stroked the wounded elf's face again and again.

Bilbo suddenly realised that he should not be standing in the tent entrance like this. He gulped, feeling guilty. He didn't know whether Thranduil would be angry if he knew Bilbo was watching. He made to turn around and leave.

"There is no need to leave, Master Baggins."

Bilbo stopped, his heart having jumped into his throat. He turned back around to see Thranduil watching him. Was that an expression of amusement that flitted across his face?

Bilbo bowed. "Beg-Begging your pardon, your Majesty" he stammered. "I did not mean to intrude."

"You did not" said Thranduil, his tone slightly amused, yet weary. "Please, come in."

Bilbo made his way into the tent. As he neared the King, who was still kneeling on the floor, his eyes could not shift from the still figure asleep in the cot. Thranduil smiled.

"Let me introduce you, Master Baggins." He glanced at the wounded elf and the smile changed, becoming deeper and more loving. "This is my son, Legolas."

"Oh!" said Bilbo. "What happened- I mean, how did he…?"

Thranduil sighed. "He was badly injured in the battle" he explained. "Crushed under orcs for nearly a day, my son was the last brought in alive from the field. And even then he only just lived."

"He got worse during Thorin's funeral- that is why I left so quickly." Thranduil gently smoothed back Legolas' hair. "That was a healer who came to fetch me."

He turned back to Legolas, rewetting the cloth on his forehead. "He is running a fever and is in a lot of pain, but he should be alright. I must admit, it is rather distracting." Thranduil chuckled. "It is hard to concentrate on your kingdom when your son is gravely wounded. I should know. Legolas does this to me every few decades. I am sure he is trying to give me grey hairs."

Bilbo frowned. "Begging your pardon, Sire, but I don't remember seeing him-oh, excuse me, Legolas, at the battle. Where did he fight?"

"You wouldn't have seen him, Master Baggins" replied Thranduil. "He led the first charge of the spearmen." He chuckled softly. "He told me last night he did it to give the troops hope, to show he believed in them. I wonder whether…"

Thranduil sighed, looking up at Bilbo. "Ignore me" he said, smiling. "I am stuck in despondent thoughts. Did you need anything, Master Baggins?"

"Actually, Sire, I was looking for Gandalf" replied Bilbo. "I was wondering when we will be leaving this place, if you understand me, and going home."

Thranduil frowned. "I don't know" he said slowly. "I have been rather remiss in my duties lately, and know little of the goings on around us. I imagine it should be soon." He smiled. "Are you eager to go home, Master Baggins?"

"Yes" replied Bilbo quickly. He then paused. "And no as well, I guess." He sighed. "I don't know. Everything is different now."

"What is your home like?"

Bilbo looked up, surprised as the sudden gentleness in the Elvenking's voice. He hesitated for a moment. "Well, it's nothing special. My little hobbit-hole, with my garden, and the view of Hobbiton is about it. It's just quiet and peaceful. Nothing ever really happens." He frowned. "Maybe it's too peaceful now. I don't really know."

Thranduil nodded. "I understand" he murmured. "Though I have not lived in a place of peace for thousands of years. It will be different when you get back, Master Baggins. You may find it strange, almost, after everything that has happened. You will have changed from the _perian_ that first left his door. But a place of peace, you say?" The King smiled softly. "There are few of them left in this world, Master Baggins. Make sure you hold onto it."

Bilbo nodded and smiled, not really sure of what to say. Thankfully at that time the tent flap was pushed back, and Gandalf entered the tent.

"Gandalf!" Bilbo cried, jumping to his feet. "Where have you been?"

"About" said Gandalf cryptically. He caught Thranduil's eye, who was still kneeling beside the cot. "How is he?" he asked.

Thranduil shrugged. "He is worse than yesterday, but better than when we found him" he replied. "The healers assure me he will be fine, but…" he trailed off, glancing back at the still figure of his son.

Gandalf sighed. "If you don't stop being dispirited, Thranduil, I will have to snap you out of it. Believe me, you don't want me to do that."

Thranduil laughed softly. "If you say so, Mithrandir."

Gandalf smiled at Bilbo, who was looking slightly confused. "King Thranduil sometimes needs a good talking to; otherwise one has to listen to his complaining for a long time."

Thranduil snorted. "I heard that, Mithrandir."

"Good!" replied Gandalf. "You were meant to."

Bilbo smiled slightly, yet at the same time glanced at the entrance of the tent. For some reason he felt he was intruding again. He still was intimidated by Thranduil.

Gandalf almost seemed to catch his thoughts, for he turned to Bilbo and quickly said: "I do believe Bard was looking for you. He is somewhere in the camp."

Bilbo nodded eagerly. Bowing low at the Elvenking, he turned and left the tent. Thranduil looked up at Gandalf.

"He is most delightful" he murmured. "Despite everything he has been through."

Gandalf nodded thoughtfully. "It takes an awful lot to completely crush a hobbit's spirit." He sighed, looking at Legolas. "Take heart. The worst is over. There will be peace here once more."

But Thranduil shook his head. "You know as well as I do, Mithrandir that the peace won't last. Mirkwood will be free from shadow for what, a decade? Less? We will not hold out."

"Maybe, maybe not" replied Gandalf. "Yet we cannot predict what is coming."

Thranduil frowned. "We _know_ what is coming, Mithrandir. I can certainly feel it. War is coming. It may take a hundred years, it may only take a few decades, but it is coming. The deciding chapter of Middle-Earth's fate is approaching. This," he said, gesturing around him, "is only the beginning, only a taste of what could happen. We will face far worse when the hammer finally falls."

Gandalf did not reply immediately. Eventually he sighed. "Aye, you are right" he said. "The end is coming. Yet there is still hope, Thranduil. You know this."

Thranduil laughed bitterly. "You always tell me this, Mithrandir, and yet I find it hard to believe. I have lived so long. I have seen too much."

"You have not seen enough!" said Gandalf sharply. "All you see, constantly, is darkness and shadow, death and loss. Yet outside your realm there is more than that. There are places of light, and beauty. You have never seen The Shire, Thranduil, the green grass and rolling hills of Bilbo's home. There is a power, there, strong enough to resist the darkness of Mordor. There is hope, Thranduil. You just have to open your eyes."

Thranduil smiled slightly. "I can be an idiot, sometimes, can I not?" he asked. "Did you know Legolas told me he led the charge to give our people hope; to show he believed in them?" He sighed. "He told me I had to be their King, and do the same. Yet it is hard, Mithrandir. It is so hard."

Gandalf shook his head. "I do not deny that" he said. "Yet your son was right. Legolas understands how important it is. Without hope, we are all dead."

0-o-0-o-0

It had been a long time since Thranduil had heard those words, kneeling on the floor of a tent next to his injured son. He had never really forgotten. The memories had just been swept up and left in a corner to gather dust.

He had not seen Legolas for months now, ever since he had sent him to Imladris bearing the news of Gollum's escape. He had had no news since a letter and a messenger, explaining a ring and a quest. He had no idea where he was, or what he was doing. He didn't even know if Legolas was alive. He had to be.

Thranduil sighed. He had to hope that Legolas would return. At times like these, it is when hope is most important. And yet it is also when it is at its most fragile. When the darkness threatens to overwhelm, that is when hope is so vital, but so hard to find.

Thranduil reached for his sword belt. Buckling it on, he found his mind straying back to the tent in the valley outside the Lonely Mountain. He had to lead his people. He owed it to his son, wherever he was, to show he believed in them, believed that the darkness could be lifted. And at that moment, he knew that even if there was not going to be a victory; he would lead them into battle nonetheless.

_The End_

_And there it is... A new story will be coming tomorrow or the day after next._

_Hannon le_


End file.
